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Page 166 of The Striker (Gods of the Game 1)

The mantra thudded in rhythm with my pulse.

Conscious wasn’t dead. It didn’t mean she was doing bloody cartwheels, but at least she was alive.

After a seeming eternity, the lift doors pinged open. I sprinted into the hall, leaving my escort behind. I didn’t need them to tell me which room Scarlett was in; I could see Carina and Brooklyn standing outside, their faces pale with worry.

Carina opened her mouth, but I didn’t wait to hear what she had to say before I barreled into the hospital room.

I didn’t care if that was rude. Ineededto see Scarlett with my own eyes, or I would fucking combust.

The door shut behind me. I came to an abrupt halt, my chest heaving as I stared at her.

She lay half propped up in the bed, her body swaddled in a loose white hospital gown that was almost the same shade as her pale, waxen complexion. She was hooked up to several machines, and gauze dressing covered half her forehead.

She blinked in visible shock when she saw me. “Asher?” Her voice was barely audible.

My lungs twisted, cutting off the free flow of oxygen.

“Hi, darling.” I swallowed as I approached her bedside. “Next time you want to get a hold of me, a call would suffice, yeah?”

Scarlett’s smile was a shadow of its usual self.

The vise in my chest constricted further. I’d seen her tired, I’d seen her in pain after a flare-up, but I’d never seen her lookthisfragile and exhausted. She was always so vibrant and full of life, and the evidence of her mortality instilled a bone-deep terror in me.

“You know me. I like a little drama.” She coughed. “How did you find out I was here?”

“Brooklyn called me. She tried calling your brother too, but his phone was off.”

Did they get through to him? Did he know his sister was in the hospital, or was Coach holding off on telling him until after the match? He should be at the stadium by now, but if hedidknow what happened, he’d be here. Vincent’s care for Scarlett was one of the things I’d never questioned about him.

“He always turns his phone off before a match. Said it’s too distracting,” Scarlett murmured.

I smoothed her hair back from her forehead, careful not to exert too much pressure lest I aggravate her injury. “What happened?”

“Nothing. I got dizzy and hit my head.”

“That’s not nothing.” My hand lingered over the gauze. “How much does it hurt?” I asked quietly.

Not just the injury, buteverything.

Her silence said more than words could.

Jagged shards raked through my insides. My heart felt like cracked glass, its pieces held together only by the sound of Scarlett’s breaths.

Ihatedthis. I hated the asshole whose car rammed into hers, I hated that medical technology wasn’t advanced enough to take away her pain, and most of all, I hated how helpless I was.

Despite all my money and all my fame, I couldn’t do a thing.

“It’s not too bad.” Her voice grew fainter. “I pushed a little too hard during rehearsals, that’s all. I’ll be fine after some rest.”

My shoulders stiffened.

Her feelings toward the showcase ran deeper than the mere act of performance, and I had to tread carefully with what I said next.

“The showcase is in December,” I reminded her gently. “You have two months of rehearsals left.”

Based on the stubborn jut of her chin, I knew it was a lost cause before she even responded. “I’ll be more careful in the future. I can make it to December.”

Frustration swelled. She was already killing herself to prove she could make it through rehearsals like everyone else. I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing her go through two more months of this.




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